


Long Hair

by elderbwrry



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, One Shot, Sexual Content, jaskier has nice hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25164466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderbwrry/pseuds/elderbwrry
Summary: Jaskier has long hair and Geralt is  o b s e s s e d.That's it. That's the plot.Pt.s 1 & 2 are general audiences, Pt. 3 is explicit so read with discretion.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 194





	Long Hair

**Author's Note:**

> This is already on my [tumblr](https://elderbwrry.tumblr.com/), but I thought I'd post it here as well.

1.

Geralt came trudging into town by the main road, pocket heavy with the reward of a job well done. The weather was a drudgy, overcast grey, but mercifully dry, and the promise of a night at an inn and a nice stable for Roach had him in relatively positive spirits. After day or two of rest and decent meals, and some new shoes for Roach, they could be off again.

The inn he dismounted in front of seemed suitably underpopulated, away from the town centre, but not so far that every traveller on the road would be staying there; it was usually better for him to stay at places such as this, happy for custom, even the strange kind, with fewer people for him to scare away. It looked clean and well-kept, and when he lead Roach round to the stables, she snorted and stepped into a pen eagerly.

“I'm glad you like it,” Geralt rumbled, patting her flank and heading in to find the owner.

The place was dry and warm when he stepped inside, a few patrons scattered around and the tuneful strums of a minstrel's lute somewhere just out of sight. The barkeep seemed wary of him, but was polite, naming a reasonable price for the room and board, which Geralt could respect. He was glad; Roach would have been grumpy if he'd had to move her after she had already gotten comfortable.

He retrieved his bags, lugging them up to his room before spending a little time removing Roach's saddle and brushing her down some. There was food waiting for him when he returned inside again, and he found an agreeable corner from which he could see the door and keep himself in shadow. The ale was good, the meat was good, and he felt himself start to unwind. Perhaps this spring would be fruitful.

So rapt by his meal was he, that he barely noticed as the minstrel struck up a new chord until they were well into a familiar song.

“ _...Where are beasts that stalk, and bite and scratch,_

_And live below the water,_

_He wades along the marshy banks...”_

His ears piqued. That was definitely Jaskier's song – the bard had certainly bitched enough about how if he was going to get new boots he may as well get a song out of it at the same time – but at a glance, that person wasn't Jaskier. Geralt turned back to his food, wondering if he should say something. It wasn't as if he knew how musicians shared their work with each other, or who could use what. Then again, Jaskier had feuded with other bards before because they'd stolen his music.

Geralt huffed out a small laugh at the memory of one notable altercation away from which Geralt had to physically carry him.  _Idiot_ , he thought fondly.

Still, perhaps he  _should_ do something.

He turned to fix the singer with a glower, thinking that he could catch them after the inevitable discomfort of amber eyes burning out of the shadows had driven them to stop. However, when he looked at the singer properly, he did a double take. The minstrel really did look like Jaskier, except... the man had long hair curling just past his shoulders.

His locks were luscious and thick, practically that of a fairytale princess. As opposed to the somewhat mousy brown Geralt remembered on Jaskier's head, the man in front of him now wore a cascading crown of highlighted and chocolatey fronds. A strand slipped in front of his eyes and he gently flicked his head to move it away again, not pausing his song.

Geralt frowned and took a deep sniff of the air. That was Jaskier's smell; there was the lemon oil of the lute that by now had ingrained its way into the crevices of his fingers and the polishing handkerchief he always carried – the scrappy one, not the one for giving to ladies. There was the smell of the lavender soap he was so fond of. There was also the darker, more masculine scent of sandalwood sitting just under it, and of course the man's natural scent under that still.

The bard flashed Geralt a smile, giving him the sense that he had been noticed early on in his arrival, and that Jaskier was amused Geralt hadn't noticed him back. Truth be told, Geralt was surprised as well. Usually he was much better at taking stock of his surroundings. It was just so unexpected, he had dismissed the possibility out of hand, it being enough to know that there was a minstrel there without identifying exactly  _which one_ it was.

He turned back to the table. He hadn't seen Jaskier in... how long now? He stretched his fingers out in front of him where his wrists rested on the table, counting the months, boring his eyes into them as if they would give him the answer. He'd spent the most recent winter at Kaer Morhen, but he'd parted ways with Jaskier in mid summer some time, not long enough for Jaskier's hair to have grown that long. Unless... that had been the summer before? His mind reeled; the passage of time sometimes escaped him, having spent so many seasons going to so many different places and climes, but he had hoped he was better at taking stock of things than this.

The bard finished up his song with a long, sustained note, after which there were some words of praise and the metallic sound of a coin being flicked through the air and caught. “Thank you, everyone. Yes, I may find it in me to perform again a little later, but for now I am  _parched_ ,” Jaskier said with his familiar lilt, and the next second, he plopped himself down in the chair opposite Geralt, absolutely beaming. “Oh, Geralt, it's wonderful to see you! Where have you been hiding yourself all this time?” he exclaimed.

As Geralt meet his eyes, he felts a pang of guilt in his gut. How had he not noticed how long he had gone without seeing Jaskier? And how could he possibly begin to make it up to him? “South,” he grunted out eloquently. _Fuck_. He could kick himself.

“Perfect, you shall have to regale me with tales of your exploits. Thank you, my good sir,” Jaskier accepted the ale the barkeep brought to their table, unbothered. The barkeep still looked wary, although this time Geralt sensed it was about the bard rather than himself. Geralt nodded at him by way of reassurance that he wasn't being bothered, although perhaps the man just had a face like that.

“I've certainly had an interesting time,” Jaskier began, taking a swig of his drink and plunging into the story of some festival or other where his honour was insulted or something. Geralt tried to pay attention, he really did, but his gaze kept being drawn back to _the hair_. It was just so bountiful, and... strange on Jaskier's face. Not _wrong_ , per se, but unusual and new and... lovely. Quite unprompted, he wondered what it would be like to touch it.

Suddenly, Geralt realised Jaskier was looking at him expectantly. “What?” he asked, hoping it didn't come out too blunt.

“Are you alright Geralt? I don't think you caught a word I just said.” there was a little doubt on the bard's face.

 _Fuck_ , he cursed inwardly. He'd spent an inordinately long time without seeing his friend, and there he was, immediately being standoffish. “I apologise. I'm just,” his eyes flicked up to the little fringe Jaskier had cultivated. “Tired from the journey.” He tried for a smile, and it appeared to put Jaskier at ease. Geralt appreciated that Jaskier could read his stunted expressions so well.

“I should have known. Just back from killing something, I suppose? You certainly smell like it. And without me? The scandal!”

Perfect, Jaskier was straight back to complaining about his cleanliness.

Jaskier glanced around at the place. “I think I've travailed all the entertainment venues this particular outpost has to offer. When do you set out again?”

Geralt raised a brow.

“Well you can't just avoid me for a year and a half and then expect me _not_ to join you again immediately. This is a long time coming, mister, I have ballads to write and there is no better ballad fodder than one white-haired witcher.” Jaskier stabbed a finger at him, but there was no attack behind his tone. Geralt wasn't sure there was a joke either, so he suspected things were exactly as Jaskier said they were; he'd run out of new material.

Unsure how he felt about the flippancy with which Jaskier had announced their renewed partnership, Geralt broke the eye contact he'd been holding, finding his focus back on the ends of Jaskier's hair.

“Anyway so I'm joining you.”

“Hmm.”

“Ah yes, there's that enthusiasm I remember.”

2.

It has been a month of Jaskier being back on the road with Geralt. A month of _hell_.

Geralt had never considered himself particularly attracted to any one type of person or style. He could recognise it if someone was attractive, but usually anyone willing to share his bed was either deluded or had been paid, and he wasn't really around anyone enough for a relationship to present itself, so it wouldn't be an issue in the first place. As for Jaskier, of course Geralt had _noticed_ he was attractive – his slim waist, carefree attitude and sparkling eyes would have taken care of that even if the bard wasn't always sending men and women swooning everywhere he went – but it had never occupied his thoughts quite so presently as it was now.

 _It's that damn hair_ , Geralt thought, slapping the boot he was polishing down harder than he intended.

Because the hair, Jaskier's _hair_ , had been the bane of Geralt's existence. The man was always playing with it or tossing it or pulling it back and it was _distracting_ , not least because of the smells it wafted every time it moved, but also because it was just gorgeous.

He was familiar with long hair, having it himself, and he supposed enjoyed the way it fell on others; the long tresses of the paid women he would spend nights with when money was easy, the firelight on Renfri's curls, the sleek cascade of Yennefer's as she worked her magic. Yennefer's, especially, he had previously thought to be entirely captivating, but nothing had prepared him for the way Jaskier's was occupying his thoughts.

At that moment, the bard was scratching around the clearing for herbs. They'd stopped for the evening, plopped down their bags and Jaskier had immediately stretched, arms pushing upwards and hair stretching down between his shoulder blades so sweetly. Then, he'd busied himself with laying out his things, thoroughly oblivious to how the golden light of the closing afternoon filtered through it like honey, and cast his face in gentle shadow.

It was at that point that Geralt had turned away, trying to ignore it all, but haunted by images in his own head of the way Jaskier's hair fell across his pillow when he was asleep, or how messy it looked in the morning, and how it would feel twined around his fingers-

He looked up again. This was no good.

Jaskier had stood up again, twirling a flower between his forefingers. A strand of hair slipped in front of his eyes, and he huffed and tried to flick it away. Then, he seemed to think better, letting the flower fall and searching in one of his pockets. A second later, he drew out a small strip of leather.

 _No_ , Geralt thought, eyes fixed, _no, don't do that_. It was as if watching a catastrophe unfold slowly in front of him, thoroughly unable to do anything about it.

Jaskier was gathering his hair up into a messy bun, catching up the stray pieces as they fell out from between his skilled fingers, raking it all up and back before tying it in place with the strip. _By the gods_ , it tempted Geralt. It made his fingers twitch and tingle. It was a kind of loss of control that he was unfamiliar with.

Task completed, Jaskier picked up the flower again and examined it, oblivious to Geralt's turmoil. “Geralt, I think this is wild garlic. What do you think?” He turned, offering out the flower towards Geralt and started, met with what was probably a too-intense expression. “Oh no, have I picked up something poisonous?” His face fell. “Gods, I just hope it doesn't itch again. I can't _stand_ the rash.”

“It's garlic,” Geralt grunted out, “you'll be fine.” Then, “Why did you grow your hair out?”

Jaskier stops for a second, frowning and doing that little move of his where he pulls his head back, like a bird. “I don't know. Felt like it, I guess. There's a bit of a style going around at the moment. And... do you remember Valdo Marx?”

“Never met him,” Geralt replied flatly, although Jaskier certainly mentioned him enough that it was a moot point.

Jaskier ignored him. “He cut his hair short and I did _not_ fancy hearing about how similar we looked.” He shrugged, looking down at his flower again. Then, he smiled cheekily. “Why, do you like it?”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, finally breaking his gaze and starting the work of polishing his other boot.

“You do! Why Geralt, I'm flattered.” There was the sound of plants being ripped from their stems, and next thing Geralt knew, Jaskier was hopping over to him and laying his hands down on his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to put a touch of warning into his voice.

“No need to be so grumpy. I'm going to plait your hair,” the bard said, forcibly turning Geralt's head to face forward. If Geralt wasn't used to Jaskier's antics, he would be taken aback by the audacity.

“Jaskier,” he protested instead of stopping him.

“I've picked up some skills,” Jaskier informed him, “I spent the winter with some _very_ lovely ladies and we did braid trains.”

“What?” he asked, but couldn't resist humming in pleasure when Jaskier took out the leather tie without pulling his hair at all.

“Braid trains. You know, you sit in a line and do the hair of the person in front of you.” Jaskier got to work, making sure to loosen Geralt's hair up before methodically pulling it back. It made his scalp crawl, but pleasantly, and he was forcing himself not to shudder with the sensation. This appeared to be yet another winning quality he hadn't known about hair. “So technically, I was there to teach the Lord's daughter music, but she spent most of the time trying to set me up with her older sister. Right little matchmaker, that one.” Jaskier prattled on as he went. “There,” he concluded, and the patch of his warmth from just behind Geralt was gone in a second. “It would have looked better with columbine, but needs must.”

Geralt's hands immediately flew to his head, feeling the way the plait criss-crossed from the crown all the way down to where it finished between his shoulders.

“Here,” Jaskier was offering him a small round mirror that he had just retrieved from his bag.

Taking a look at himself, Geralt realised it actually looked quite nice – somewhat feminine though it was – tightly woven strands except for two Jaskier had left twirling down from just by his cheekbones. There were garlic flowers woven in, a few of which he could catch when he angled the mirror just right, not the prettiest flower, but matched well in terms of colour; white like his hair but with that ever so slightly blueish tinge that he didn't know if Jaskier could even see with his human eyes. He hadn't ever imagined this kind of thing would suit him, but...

“You like it?” Jaskier asked with all the atmosphere of a cook just after serving dinner, breaking Geralt out of his reverie.

“Hmm,” was all he could find to say, and Jaskier nodded, a small, genuine smile taking up residence on his face as he went back to foraging.

Geralt watched him for a minute more, the descending sun still gently lighting Jaskier's movements gold, disappointment sitting low in his chest that with hands built for fighting, he couldn't return the favour.

3.

Jaskier was killing it. The entire tavern was spellbound as he told his ballads and sung his songs and then performed them all again when they inevitably asked him to – not that he was refusing. He'd just sung the damned coin song for the third time, and probably would again before the night was over. The light cast all around the place from seemingly nowhere was orange and warm though it was well into the night, giving the room an otherworldly glow. There was a particular confluence of alcohol and something else that just meant that the place was in love with him.

Geralt, however, was just tired. It had been a difficult day of chopping things up, the nest he had been sent to deal with having been significantly larger than he'd expected. He'd had a few drinks himself, but he still smelled vaguely of monster guts and he had no desire to stay for much longer around such a rowdy group of humans. Besides, the air was thick enough with alcoholic fumes that he was probably halfway drunk already.

He stood, turning to wish Jaskier a good night, or at least signal that he was going to turn in, but the bard was far too entrenched, a maiden practically on each arm, leaving only enough space for him to strum the lute. Instead, he just squeezed through the heavily populated tavern to the staircase to the rooms above.

Their room – he only ever shared with Jaskier now, there was no point in even pandering to privacy – was two flights up, thankfully far from the ruckus the bard was causing on the ground. He lit some candles, casting the room in a gentle light which was kind on his tired eyes. When he went to take off shirt, however, he caught a whiff of exactly what he still smelled like, leaving no other option but to have some kind of bath.

Making his way down to the kitchen, it was clear everyone was far too busy to do it for him, so he silently got down to the task of hauling water up the stairs and into the tub situated in the small adjoining room to his. It didn't take too long, and tired as he was, the simple process of lifting and climbing and pouring and repeating set his mind at ease some.

He hadn't bothered to warm the water beforehand, instead casting a quick spell when everything was ready. He stripped off and lowered himself in the water, letting out a low moan at the warmth soothing his aching muscles. He got to work scrubbing the dirt off himself with soap, raking his fingers through his hair and rinsing until he was happy, before finally putting the bar down and reclining in the steam. Ah, the perks of magic.

Geralt couldn't be sure how long he'd been sitting there when Jaskier burst through the door into the room, drunk, hair all over the place, like it had had fingers run through it. Fingers that weren't his. “Geralt?” he said, plopping down the lute on the bed and looking confused when he didn't immediately catch sight of Geralt through the open adjoining door. “Oh, There you are,” he closed the door behind him over-carefully, before approaching.

On the whole, this wasn't entirely unusual; they shared spaces with each other like this a lot, and Jaskier had more than once taken forcing Geralt to have a bath into his own hands. They didn't bother with privacy. Jaskier had also been drunk before, and Geralt was no stranger to the traces the bard's adoring fans left on his person after one of his performances. It just so happened that this time it was tousled hair that had Geralt's fingers twitching.

“Oh, tonight was wonderful, truly one of my best performances,” the bard fumbled just a little over the word, waving a hand to dismiss the slip. “In fact, I should write about it...” He hummed a short melody and muttered a line about golden light.

Jaskier began removing his clothes, getting ready for bed, Geralt thought, until he was removed of that illusion by a hairy leg plunging into the water next to him as a fully naked Jaskier got in the tub. Water sloshed over the sides when he settled in, and Geralt had to hurriedly cross his legs in order to make room for him.

“This is rather toasty,” Jaskier commented, reaching for the soap and beginning to lather up his hands. “Since when do you take a bath without prompting?”

“Since when do you join me?” Geralt replied. His tone was more accusatory than he'd intended, and Jaskier pouted.

“Come now, there's no point in wasting good water.”

“Hmm.”

“We should stop somewhere with a proper bathing room,” Jaskier informed him, spreading suds over his body. Geralt did not fail to notice how the very tips of his hair reached the water and dipped under only to emerge again plastered to his chest. “I need a deep clean one of these days.”

“Do you want me to..?” It was out of Geralt's mouth before he even knew what he was offering, but his traitorous hand had already gestured to Jaskier's head.

The bard paused, mouth drawing into a thoughtful little circle. “My hair?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier looked at the soap in his hand, then back towards Geralt. “Yeah, why not?” he muttered, before turning in the bath – sending more water cascading over the sides, of course – and shuffling up until he was sitting between Geralt's spread thighs, back to chest.

Geralt cursed internally. The water was warm, but Jaskier's skin was like a firebrand when his side brushed against Geralt's leg. He wasn't leaning back yet, but should he do so, Geralt would be forced to embrace him in order to do anything at all with his hands.

“Here's the soap,” Jaskier said, passing the bar back over his shoulder, but let it slip from his fingers just as Geralt reached up to retrieve it.

“Shit,” he hissed, peering into the water and descended to groping around, as the low light from the few candles flickering around them illuminated nothing. He finally found it, certain he had accidentally touched Jaskier's butt more than a few times. Worse still, his dick was getting... interested in proceedings.

To distract himself, Geralt got down to business, reaching for a cup that had been left on the side. He filled it with water and dumped it over Jaskier's head, causing him to splutter and elbow Geralt's knee. “Hey!” he protested, to which Geralt smiled, making sure to pour it more carefully.

Eventually, Jaskier's hair was wet enough that Geralt could start working soap through it and teasing out the knots. He hit a few snags, but he was careful – more careful than he ever was with himself – until eventually he had cleaned all of it. But he couldn't quite bring himself to stop touching it.

This was the hair that had been haunting him for months now, calling to him; here it was, wound through his fingers. This close, it was just as rich of a chestnut brown as it looked from far away. Some of it was straightened out, weighed down by the water in it, but other bits were curling a little as they dried, delightfully happy ringlets. He could feel also that Jaskier took very good care of it, something he knew from their travels anyway, but now he held the evidence.

Then, entirely separate, was the experience of being so close to a wet, naked Jaskier. For starters, the man was not nearly as tipsy as he was pretending to be, as Geralt could tell from his smell. He was warm, pleasantly relaxed and content, but it was due to the influence of something other than alcohol. Geralt could smell... longing, with just a hint of lust.

The revelation caused him to pause where he had been gently massaging Jaskier's scalp.

“No, don't stop,” Jaskier complained, leaning his head back into Geralt's hands. “That was really nice.”

Instead, Geralt picked up the cup again to begin the process of rinsing Jaskier's hair, but found himself unwilling to inundate Jaskier as he had before, lest he get soap in his eyes. He placed a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, guiding his back to lie across his chest. “Lay your head back,” he rumbled, and Jaskier glanced at him for only a second before complying, closing his eyes as he settled down into the curve of Geralt's arm.

Geralt let out a small exhale, gently placing his hand over Jaskier's eyes now to protect them from the water, and beneath him Jaskier drew a surprised breath, but did not stiffen or withdraw. Continuing his gentle actions, Geralt emptied two cups over Jaskier's hairline, rising out the soap.

When he lowered his hands, it was as he'd thought it would be before, with one arm wrapped around Jaskier's side, and the other resting on his stomach. When Jaskier didn't move away, he took up the soap again as an excuse to let his hands wander, over his chest, over his collarbones, down his stomach and then lower.

Still Jaskier didn't pull away. When Geralt checked, he was biting his lip.

“May I?” Geralt asked lowly, circling his finger over the part of Jaskier's hip that led down to his groin.

Jaskier nodded.

Forgoing any pretence of cleaning, Geralt dipped his hand further into the water and wrapped it around Jaskier's cock, which he found to be just as hard as his own. He stroked it a few times, absently lamenting that it was hidden beneath the water level, but far more interested in the sounds he was drawing from the bard, who was just melting into him, letting out little hums of assent and plaintive sighs when Geralt changed speed. It was funny though, he would have thought the bard would be more vocal.

“Mmm, Geralt,” Jaskier muttered, as if on cue.

Geralt hummed in a questioning tone, bringing his hand down to the base of Jaskier's cock and squeezing.

Jaskier whined. “Faster. Touch me, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, bringing the movements of his hand back up to their previous speed and beyond. With his other hand, he pulled Jaskier so he was flush against his body – all of his body – before he lifted it up to thumb across one of Jaskier's nipples. That had the bard squirming in delightful ways, pushing his chest forward and his ass back, a breathless gasp escaping his lips.

“I've wanted this for – ungh, so _long_ ,” Jaskier forced out as Geralt continued to move his hand, swiping over the head of Jaskier's cock every few lengths. Jaskier's hand had found its way to Geralt's thigh, and was gripping it tightly. Words spilled out of Jaskier's mouth now as he climbed higher – Geralt could smell the beginnings of desperation on his skin – praises passing his lips unhindered – “Gods, Geralt, your _hands_ ,” – and Geralt hardly wanted to let Jaskier come, just so he could continue to hear them; but when Jaskier uttered a breathy, “ _Please_ ”, he had no choice but to twist his wrist just so, and then Jaskier was coming, throwing his head back over Geralt's shoulder with a groan, breathing heavily.

Geralt stroked him through it, but removed his hand when he felt Jaskier might become uncomfortable. They sat like that for a long moment, and Geralt felt suitably uninhibited that he twirled his fingers through the thinner, drying ends of Jaskier's hair where it had fallen in front of his chest from his movements. Predictably, it didn't take too long before Jaskier spoke.

“I haven't come that hard from someone's hand since I was a teenager.” He shifted around to face Geralt better, a cheeky grin on his face, but with the movement realised that Geralt was still hard, his eyes dropping to get a look. “Do you need some help with that, Geralt?”

Jaskier placed his hands on Geralt's abdomen, and something about the pose put Geralt in mind of a nymph or a mermaid, his hair draped over him in a wild way that made him look more supernatural than human. The light of the candles glinted against his wet skin, but the twinkle in his eyes was all his, and Geralt was so captivated that he barely noticed the assenting rumble that rose up from his throat.

The bard leaned further and further forward, sliding his hands further and further downward, and the moment Jaskier finally touched him was the same moment he brought their lips together.

Geralt was already achingly hard, but Jaskier insisted on teasing him with light touches, following the initial deep kiss with several smaller ones, trailing his way along his jaw and nipping at his neck. The feeling was driving Geralt crazy – he wanted Jaskier's lips back on his, he wanted to get lost in the pleasure of his hands and the passion of his touch and the warmth of his kiss. A little growl escaped his throat as Jaskier traced the dip of his neck with his tongue, and he tightened his hold on Jaskier's hips. The bard wasn't far away, but he wasn't close enough.

All at once, he couldn't help himself, his hands flew up to twine in Jaskier's hair, manoeuvring him back down to kiss him again, biting his lips and growling as Jaskier's grip tightened. The bard groaned out a soft “Yes,” and returned the kiss fiercely, moving his hand faster. Geralt was getting closer, and, losing himself somewhat to pleasure, he tugged on Jaskier's hair until his head fell back, giving Geralt unrestricted access to his neck.

The pale column of Jaskier's neck had been much obscured to him these past months, and he relished its reveal – the return of the mole just behind his ear, the subtle line of muscle climbing from his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed – Geralt attacked it all with teeth and tongue.

Jaskier, for his part, only moved his hand faster, giving out lusty sounds and encouragements that only drove Geralt further and further over the edge until, with one last stroke from base to tip pleasure coursed through him.

Geralt came with a growl, his grip loosening as blue eyes turned down to fix him with a fascinated gaze. Under scrutiny, he tried to keep his breathing even, dropping his head forward to breathe into the bard's shoulder.

Jaskier's fingers were playing delightfully over his chest as he came back down, tracing a long scar that crossed over his shoulder before moving onto the next. With the tail end of the high still washing over him, Geralt barely had time to wonder if he had potentially wrecked his relationship with Jaskier when he spoke up.

“What changed?”

Geralt frowned, finally raising his eyes to look up at the vision still kneeling over his lap.

“All these years and you could have done this any time you wanted. You've certainly looked me over enough times.”

Well, it was certainly true Geralt had cast glances in Jaskier's direction a few times in their travels – after all, the bard was not unattractive, and he liked him very well – he just hadn't been motivated to take action until...

“Your hair,” Geralt said.

“My hair?” Jaskier frowned in return. “You're saying my hair was what tipped the scale?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Well then. I should have grown it out ages ago.” Jaskier shook his head with an incredulous laugh. “We'll be taking advantage of it more I suppose?”  
Geralt grinned. “If you'd like.”

Jaskier widened his eyes comically. “My dear witcher, how dare you even doubt.”

**Author's Note:**

> It is difficult to think of this many words to describe hair but it must be done.
> 
> Jaskier: *has long hair*  
> Geralt: this is not jaskier. this man is a fairytale princess.


End file.
